Read Crown & Country: A History of England Through the Monarchy Online
Authors: David Starkey
The birth of the young Henry seemed to settle the problem of the succession. It also offered the prospect of the union of Normandy and Anjou, which had been the lifetime goal of King Henry’s diplomacy. Overjoyed, Henry, hastening to be at his grandson’s side, left England for Normandy in August 1133.
He never returned.
It was not for want of trying. Three times he made arrangements to leave. But each time the journey had to be put off. The reason was a new family quarrel between the king and his son-in-law, Count Geoffrey. Geoffrey was eager to step into the old man’s shoes; Henry was having none of it. In revenge Geoffrey stirred up rebellion in Normandy and it almost came to open war between them.
But not even rebellion and family quarrels were allowed to interfere with Henry’s passion for the chase. On Monday, 25 November 1135, he arrived at the
château
of Lyons-la-Forêt and made arrangement to go hunting the following day. But in the night he was suddenly taken ill. He lingered for almost a week. In that time he confirmed his disposition of the crown: ‘he awarded’, William of Malmesbury writes, ‘all his territories, on either side of the sea, to his daughter in legitimate and perpetual succession’. Finally, on Sunday, 1 December, towards midnight, Henry died.
The Anglo-Saxon chronicler had found plenty to criticize in Henry’s rule while he was still alive, in particular ‘the manifold impositions’ of taxation which had borne so heavily on the common folk. But, when he was dead, he delivered a very different verdict on the king:
A good man he was; and there was great dread of him. No man durst do wrong with another in his time. Peace he made for man and beast. Whoso bare his burthen of gold and silver, durst no man say ought to him but good.
The difference in the judgements arose, no doubt, from the fact that the chronicler was writing his obituary with the benefit of hindsight.
For Henry had changed the monarchy – and England. At his deathbed one of his attendants said, ‘God grant him peace, for peace he loved.’ This and more he had achieved by force of will, by ruthlessness and patient calculation. He had imposed royal justice on his people and centralized power in permanent departments of state. He had restored his father’s empire and extended it into Wales. He had dominated Scotland and held Normandy together. All these were remarkable achievements. But, for the English, there was one that stood out at the time. It was the imposition of the king’s peace – intimidating, irresistible and complete. And it would be in short supply now that he was gone.
Henry’s body was taken in solemn procession to Rouen. There it was disembowelled and embalmed in preparation for its eventual journey to England. This was delayed by adverse winds and bad weather and it was not until 4 January 1136 that it was buried in the abbey at Reading which Henry had built and in the England which he had made his own.
His successor was present at the funeral. But, despite all Henry’s efforts, it was not his daughter Matilda.
Stephen and Matilda
BACK IN 1126, STEPHEN OF BLOIS
had competed to be second to swear the oath to his cousin Matilda. Now he was the first to break it. As soon as he heard the news of his uncle Henry’s death, he took ship for Dover. There the townsfolk refused to admit him. As they did at Canterbury. But in London it was a different story. The citizens welcomed him with open arms, and, claiming to act as a proxy for all the English, elected him king by acclamation. It was the first direct participation by the English in the choice of a monarch since the Norman Conquest.
Then Stephen, following in Henry I’s own footsteps, made straight for Winchester, where he seized the royal treasury and was acclaimed by the people of the second capital. That done, he returned to London for his coronation on Sunday, 22 December. It was a scratch affair. According to William of Malmesbury, three bishops were present: ‘but there were no abbots and scarcely any of the nobility’. Thinly attended though it was, it was enough to put the indelible mark of kingship on Stephen.
A mere twenty-two days separated the death of Henry I and Stephen’s coronation. It was done ‘without delay, without struggle, as though in the twinkling of an eye’.
I
That much is clear. But
how
the
coup d’état
was effected is more debatable. One school of thought sees it merely as the result of Matilda’s ill-luck and ill-judgement. If her relations with her father had remained good and she had been present at his deathbed then, it is argued, she would have been recognized as queen by the large number of nobles and bishops ‘whom the report of [Henry’s] sickness … quickly gathered around him’, and that would have been that. I wonder, however, whether it were quite so simple. Had Stephen really not thought of the possibility of claiming the throne? Had he really taken no soundings? Was the well-oiled machine of the seizure of power really extemporized? It seems hard to believe.
The other view would see longer-term causes at work: simmering resentment at Matilda’s nomination and marriage on the one hand, and careful preparation by Stephen on the other. The latter is plainly hinted at by William of Malmesbury: ‘yet, not to conceal the truth from posterity,’ he writes, ‘all [Stephen’s] efforts would have been in vain, had not his brother, Henry, bishop of Winchester, granted him his entire support’. For Henry’s firm commitment and smooth tongue brought over other crucial figures: the archbishop of Canterbury, Roger of Salisbury and William de Pont de l’Arche, the treasurer. Between them, these men gave Stephen the key to three of the four power centres of the Anglo-Norman state: the Church, the administration and the royal treasures. Only the fourth, the nobility, remained uncommitted.
But not for long. Here, once again, Stephen’s remarkable and universal popularity came into play. ‘Stephen,’ William of Malmesbury concedes, ‘before he came to the throne, from his complacency of manners, and readiness to joke, to sit and make good cheer, even with low people, had gained so much on their affections as is hardly to be conceived.’ Soon, the same easy talent had the nobility eating out of his hand as well and they ‘all … willingly acknowledged him’. And where his own popularity couldn’t reach, his uncle’s treasures, estimated at £100,000 in cash besides plate and jewels, and now at his entire disposal, did.
Stephen’s swift and complete seizure of power presented Matilda and her leading supporters with a fait accompli, and even her half-brother Robert, earl of Gloucester, rendered conditional homage at the specially summoned great council. The other principal business of the council was the issuing of a major charter of liberties. There was something in it for everyone, but most for the Church. ‘I, Stephen … do grant the Holy Church to be free,’ the charter began and went on to confirm the most generous and far-reaching interpretation of the rights, privileges, property and autonomy of both Church and churchmen. Stephen also surrendered all the new forests which had been added by Henry I; ‘entirely [did] away all exactions … and injustices, whether illegally introduced by the sheriffs or anyone else’, and finally swore to ‘observe the good and ancient laws and just customs in murders, pleas and other causes’.
The charter, witnessed by the impressively large number of fourteen bishops and twenty-nine lay magnates, marked the definitive acceptance of Stephen by the realm. But, even at this high tide of his support, there were disturbing signs of weakness. Immediately on hearing of the death of Henry, David I of Scotland had invaded England and captured several important towns, including Carlisle and Newcastle, which were the key to the west and east borders respectively.
Was David being merely opportunistic? Or was he also registering his disapproval of Stephen’s overriding of Matilda’s claim, of which (the Anglo-Saxon chronicler implies) the Scottish king had been a prime mover? At any event, Stephen moved north with an intimidatingly large army. But, instead of crushing David, he came to terms. David kept Carlisle.
Similarly, Earl Robert of Gloucester, in return for rendering a reluctant homage, ‘received everything that he wanted’ from the king. But most notorious was the case of Baldwin de Revières, who held Exeter Castle against Stephen. Stephen took personal charge of the siege, which dragged on through three swelteringly hot summer months. Like the siege of Bridgnorth, thirty years previously at the beginning of Henry I’s reign, it was a high-profile military action, conducted ‘before the eyes of all the barons’. Also as at Bridgnorth and no doubt for the same reasons, the barons were reluctant for the king to press things to a conclusion and counselled leniency. But there the parallel ends. For Stephen, unlike Henry, listened to the siren voices and allowed the garrison and Baldwin de Revières himself to go free on their surrender.
Stephen, men were learning fast, might be a good soldier. But he was a poor negotiator, with the knack of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.
The lesson was driven home, on the largest and most damaging scale, by Stephen’s expedition in 1137 to Normandy to take possession of his other, ducal realm. The Norman barons had been no keener on the succession of Matilda than the English and their first thought after Henry’s death was to offer the duchy to Stephen’s elder brother, Theobald, count of Blois. Theobald accepted, and it was only with a bad grace that he was subsequently persuaded to renounce his claim in favour of Stephen. Stephen, for his part and with his now customary generosity, sweetened the pill with a pension of 2000 marks (£1333 6
s
8
d
) a year for his brother.
A much more severe challenge to Stephen’s possession of Normandy came from Geoffrey of Anjou. Geoffrey, acting in right of his wife Matilda, was able to exploit the ever-fractious Norman baronage and invaded in June. Stephen determined to meet him head-on. But once again the barons demurred. Faced with this division in his own ranks, Stephen had no choice but to come to terms, and Geoffrey too was bought off with an annual pension of 2000 marks. Stephen even paid the first year’s instalment on the spot.
Stephen never returned to Normandy, which was left – increasingly unhappily – to fend for itself.
The outcome of this disastrous Norman expedition was a turning point. It made clear that Stephen was squandering his political capital almost as quickly as his uncle’s cash mountain. It emboldened his enemies everywhere. The Scots invaded in the new year and, after Easter, there were risings against Stephen throughout the West Country.
In response, Stephen laid about him in all directions: rushing, in the space of a few months, from Scotland to Bristol to Castle Cary and finally to Shrewsbury. Here, for the first time, he showed his teeth by having ‘five men of rank … hanged’ after the surrender of the garrison. And a much greater victory was won in Stephen’s absence in the north. There, on 22 August, the northerners, led by Archbishop Thurstan of York and fighting under the banners of the northern Anglo-Saxon saints, defeated King David of Scots. The victory entered into legend as the Battle of the Standard. But, despite the scale of the Scottish military defeat, it was David who triumphed in the peace negotiations by gaining Newcastle and the earldom of Northumbria. With these gains, the Scots now ruled the northern counties from coast to coast.
The effective dismemberment of England had begun.
II
The key defector from Stephen was Earl Robert of Gloucester. Robert’s motives have been much debated by modern historians. Had he been covertly committed to Matilda all along? Or was he a Johnny-come-lately to her cause and motivated more by pique at Stephen than by loyalty to his half-sister? In fact, there seems little reason to doubt the explanation of Robert’s behaviour offered by his contemporary and apologist, William of Malmesbury. For it is based, above all, on Robert’s caution. This was a quality which Robert displayed – often to excess – throughout his career. Robert, William of Malmesbury explains, found himself on the horns of a dilemma: ‘if he became subject to Stephen, it seemed contrary to the oath he had sworn to his sister; if he opposed him, he saw that such conduct [in view of Stephen’s apparently impregnable position] could nothing benefit her or his nephews, but would certainly most grievously injure himself ’.
The upshot was that Robert played a waiting game. But the moment the cracks in Stephen’s position made it safe and sensible to do so, he had renounced the homage he had reluctantly given.
That was in May 1138. But it took almost another eighteen months before Robert felt it safe to land in England. Meanwhile, Stephen’s position had undergone a further, abrupt deterioration. And this time it touched, not the fringes, but the heart – or rather, the soul – of his power. From the beginnings of English kingship, the relationship of Church and state had been of the most intimate. But Stephen, more even than most kings, had begun his reign as a creature of the Church. As we have seen, the support of his brother Henry, bishop of Winchester, had been crucial in his seizure of the crown. And thereafter the Church had continued to be exceptionally supportive.
But now Stephen risked throwing all this away by engineering a confrontation with Bishop Roger of Salisbury and his clan at the summer court of 1139. The court was convoked to meet at Oxford on 24 June and Bishop Roger was summoned with the rest. But he went reluctantly and with foreboding. ‘I shall be of much the same service at court as a foal in battle.’
Roger’s premonitions were fulfilled when a fracas took place between his servants and those of Stephen’s favourite, Alan, count of Brittany. The king leapt at the opportunity. He had disgraced the king’s court and broken his peace, Roger was told. To make amends, he was required to reaffirm his allegiance and surrender his castles of Salisbury, Malmesbury, Sherborne and Devizes. Roger’s nephew Alexander, bishop of Lincoln, was likewise required to surrender his castles of Newark and Sleaford.